


hearts & flowers

by marina_rocher



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Domesticity, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 04:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina_rocher/pseuds/marina_rocher
Summary: Inspired by the post by Anush (@philester): "I still can’t believe Dan Howell kept a paper for 6 whole years. Like damn. Kinda makes you wonder what else he’s kept."





	hearts & flowers

He should probably get a better box for this. Something fancier, or at least something that doesn't fall apart each time he grabs it from the top shelf. It's not that heavy, actually. Just bulky, and unorganized, and also containing some of the most precious things he owns.

When he was into minimalism, he read that you don't need to keep sentimental things. You can take a picture of your favourite childhood plushie or scan the pages of an old diary and throw them out. You don't need to store all of that memorabilia anymore. He thought it was bullshit.

Dan puts the box on the floor, sits cross-legged on the carpet and opens it. Some of these have already been scanned, like the list of questions from the first PINOF, but there's still so much important stuff here. A CD Phil recorded for him even though people already switched to iPods at that time. A fat envelope containing all of his tickets to Manchester and from the concerts they went to together. A long letter to Phil he wrote when he came back home after meeting him for the first time. It was the cheesiest thing ever and he never sent it and showed personally years later.

The whole box smells like coffee and cinnamon and Dan digs out two sticky Starbucks cups with some dried coffee at the bottom. Their names, written in barista's shitty handwriting, are right there.

He finds some bracelets from different conventions and YouTube events, all tangled up. These are not exactly their memories as a couple, but he likes remembering how nice it felt having Phil so close to him in the crowd. Always there. Inseparable. Phil being so confident with very insecure Dan by his side.

"Reorganizing?"

Phil enters the bedroom in his pajama pants, ready for sleep, a tablet in his hand that he uses to browse in bed.

"No, I just got distracted."

Phil wouldn't ridicule him for diving into nostalgia, but he feels embarrassed anyways. For some reason, he's still convinced that getting swiped by the memories means he's not satisfied with the present.

Phil drops the tablet on the bed and sits on the floor next to him.

"Hey, look at this!"

It's a receipt from their dinner at Skybar, one of the first ones. It's not long, but the sum at the bottom is considerably big. Dan remembers how Phil wouldn't allow him to see it, how he shoved the piece of paper into his pocket and reached for a card to pay. It was surreal. Today, they don't even bother to split the check or keep track of who paid last time. How has it come to this?

"I remember how I saw it and realized that I didn't have enough cash," Phil laughs, straightening the receipt against his knee. "But thank god I had a card."

"You never told me this!" Dan smiles. "Or maybe you did but I just don't remember."

There are so many printed photos here. They had to keep them somewhere, they realized, after having to display their home to the whole world through video sketches and Instagram pictures, knowing how each element of their domestic life will be dissected and discussed. That's not a problem with digital photos, but they accumulated so many early memories together that Dan simply couldn't get rid of blurry analog pictures.

"I love how you have your untamed curly hair here," Phil points out. It's a shot from Jamaica, a rather personal one of Dan sitting in an armchair in their hotel room, wrapped in bedsheets, his tan skin so bright against their whiteness.

There's even a roll of film in a transparent box that they forgot to develop. He doesn't even remember when and where they used it. It can stay here for a while.

Phil puts his chin on Dan's shoulder - a pleasant and welcomed weight. It's a weird feeling - having a family of his own. Shared possessions and one bed. Dreams, and passwords, and cutlery, and chores. Anniversaries to celebrate. Friends to come over and bring more stuff that will be shared again.

And this box that Dan started and has been keeping safe for years.

"If I were to lose my memory," Phil starts, and Dan has to shake his head to come back to reality. "You'd show me this box to make me remember stuff again."

Dan fights the urge to roll his eyes.

"Sure."


End file.
